


A little French-Canadian-Genovian

by persuna



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Favs is of course Anne Hathaway, M/M, Pining, made up monarchy nonsense, very loose Princess Diaries AU, wafer thin logic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persuna/pseuds/persuna
Summary: If he’s being honest, Lovett has never really thought through to the end of the French-Canadian-Genovian triad. The opportunity to tease Jon about being Frenchandbeing Canadian is right there in the headline, so some European backwater never makes the cut. “Is that near Nambia?" he asks, not wanting to admit outright to the kind of extreme geographical ignorance that he has mocked several congressmen for.





	A little French-Canadian-Genovian

**Author's Note:**

> AU genius [extendedscreeching](https://extendedscreeching.tumblr.com/post/170233621249/whos-writing-the-au-where-favs-is-the-grandson-of) first conceived of secretly royal Favs, and a mere seven and a half months later, here it is!
> 
> SO MANY thanks to findyourspine for fixing my multitude of errors, and ever so gently pointing out where I was missing a whole chunk of the story.
> 
> I feel I should warn you, I wrote half of this before watching Princess Diaries for the first time in ten years, and half after, which is why it can't decide if it's lightly inspired by the film, or a pastiche of scenes from it.

One evening at Crooked HQ, Jon gets a letter. A really freaking weird letter, on thick, creamy paper with a red seal and tassels and _oh yes_ it's delivered by an uncomfortable looking man dressed like a meateater, or whatever those British guards with the stupid hats are called. The point is, he's wearing a deeply stupid hat and a thoroughly impractical uniform and Lovett honestly despairs of his younger millennial brethren and the shit they think is cool. It’s almost like his lowercase-r republican rants aren’t making an impact if this is the new hipster way of delivering messages. If they let this slide, soon people will be training swans and greyhounds to carry their messages, and the work they’ve done on expanding into different digital mediums will be for naught.

 _The point_ , as he was saying, is that this strange and inexplicable fetishization of the trappings of colonialism and imperialism is an insult to the whole American Experiment, which is already having a bad year. Couple of years. Maybe a bad half-decade.

Lovett's rant is just building up a good head of steam when he takes in Jon's pale face and the expression on it and realizes he is perhaps the one missing the point.

"... unless it's a Revolutionary war tricorn hat," he finishes lamely. "Hey, are you okay?" He walks over to Jon, who is still literally gaping at the letter, mouth hanging open and eyes round, like a toddler who's been told Santa isn't real.

This is where Tommy would clap a large, manful hand on Jon's shoulder, somehow transmitting a sense of how his own broad shoulders would be just as metaphorically supportive and capable in times of crisis as they could be literally supportive and capable in times of crisis (key word could, since Tommy is notoriously capricious when there are actual heavy objects to be lifted, and as likely to make fun of Lovett for buying too much Diet Coke as he is to help carry it) and this would encourage Jon to share whatever was troubling him. But Tommy, the careless cad, is making a Starbucks run, so Lovett will have to either take that role on in addition to his equally vital one of hanging awkwardly back until Jon needs a joke to cheer him up, or live with the crushed and shocked look on Jon's face until Tommy gets back to fulfil his duties.

Tommy has only just left and Jon’s face is heart-breaking, so Lovett steps forward and places a tentative hand on his shoulder. It looks small and inadequate there, but size must not be a key part of this bro ritual, because Jon breaks free of his shock-induced catatonia.

“Not really,” says Jon, lowering the letter. “Pierre died in a hunting accident.”

Now Lovett feels like a real heel for taking so long to break out the comforting shoulder clasp. “I’m sorry,” he says. Although. He takes a moment to page through his memories of Jon’s family and friends and comes up empty. “Who’s Pierre?”

“My fourth cousin twice removed.”

Lovett knows the Favreau clan is big, but that is some real dedicated member tracking. “Were you… close?” he asks.

“Never met him,” replies Jon. He’s rereading the letter, eyes focused now, darting back and forth across the paper. From what Lovett can see, it contains some kind of complicated flow chart in which lots of boxes have been crossed through with red ink.

“Then…” Lovett trails off before he can ask why Jon is so upset. He’s pretty sure that that would be rude.

“And my second cousin once removed has a daughter, but it turns out that her marriage to Uncle Herman was bigamous, so her children are illegitimate.”

“How quaint.” Lovett is more confused than ever. “What exactly is that letter?” he asks.

Jon ignores him. “And both my first cousins were caught embezzling money from the family trust years ago, so that whole branch has been disowned.” He drops the letter, leans back in his chair and covers his face with both hands. “Fuck,” he says, muffled but intelligible.

“Is it some kind of family newsletter?” Lovett removes his hand from Jon’s shoulder, where it was starting to feel like it had overstayed its welcome, and reaches for the letter, now loose on the desk. Before his hand can touch it some kind of fucking fencing sword sweeps down between him and the letter, scattering half the contents of Jon’s desk to the floor. “The fuck!” he says, springing back.

“That is a private, sovereign communication,” says the beefchewer, still here. Well that’s awkward. Lovett has insulted his hat quite a few times since he arrived. But since he hasn’t launched any kind of physical attack, Lovett feels like he still has the moral high ground.

“Hey,” says Jon, sharp and angry, “stand down, and don’t swing that thing around in here. Lovett can touch whatever he likes”. It’s a sweet sentiment, and between the adrenaline of being attacked by an old-timey psychopath and Jon’s deep and sexy annoyed voice, Lovett feels very alive, but perhaps it's unwise to antagonize the man with an offensive weapon. He’s casting his eyes around the office for anything that will do as a shield—it’s a pretty flimsy sword so his odds could be worse—when the beefer sheaths his sword, seemingly equally affected by the voice.

“Does the time suit you?” he asks instead. His tone is respectful, but he’s glaring imaginary fencing foils at Lovett for all he’s worth.

“I’ll be there,” says Jon. He glances up at Lovett, “and I’ll be taking up the plus one option.”

“Of course, your-”

“Bye then!” says Jon, cutting him off, “don’t let us keep you.”

With a deep and perplexing bow, the man finally leaves.

“Are you punking me for social media hits?” asks Lovett. “Because if you are, I don’t get it.” It's mostly a joke, but he does a quick spin looking for cameras, just in case.

Jon looks pained. “You know how I sometimes say I have a little French-Canadian-Genovian in me?"

Lovett nods. That is a phrase that Jon has dropped a few times over the course of their friendship.

“He’s head of the Queen’s Guard. In Genovia.”

If he’s being honest, Lovett has never really thought through to the end of the French-Canadian-Genovian triad. The opportunity to tease Jon about being French _and_ being Canadian is right there in the headline, so some European backwater never makes the cut. “Is that near Nambia?" he asks, not wanting to admit outright to the kind of extreme geographical ignorance that he has mocked several congressmen for.

“It’s a principality between France and Spain”. Jon picks the letter back up and starts worrying it between his fingers.

“I don’t think you’re explaining as thoroughly as you think,” says Lovett, when Jon continues not to speak.

“Since Pierre is dead and everyone else is ineligible through age, criminality, or lack of blood-related children,” Jon swallows, “I’m next in line for the throne.”

The silence from that bombshell is still ringing when Tommy returns, tray of coffees in hand. He takes in the scene.

"What did I miss?”

***

“You don’t seem very excited about this,” says Lovett, sometime after Jon's much more thorough and coherent explanation to Tommy. He’s just about keeping it together, but only because Pundit is curled up on his lap, and rocking her gently back and forth is soothing to both of them.

Jon lifts his head from his hands to look at him like he’s a complete moron. “Of course I’m not excited about it. It’s a total fucking nightmare. I'd have to give up my whole life.”

“Then can’t you say no? You’re a reasonably well known American citizen, they’re not going to rendition you for a coronation. Abdicate, or pre-abdicate, or whatever they call that.”

“I could say no,” says Jon carefully. He picks the letter back up and turns it over in his hands. He’s building up to something. “But, reading between the lines, they're willing to pursue a viable heir to the fullest extent of Genovian law."

"Which is?" prompts Tommy, when Jon does not continue.

"If doing so imperils the monarchy," Jon runs his long fingers down the edges of the letter, hesitant, "then technically treason."

"You're joking," says Lovett, loudly enough that it dislodges Pundit from his lap. He must be joking. "You must be joking. Things have got pretty bad, but we haven't descended all the way back into feudalism quite yet."

"I'm not saying it would be a slam dunk," replies Jon, "But that's what they could try for. And if they succeeded, I could be extradited there from anywhere in Europe. Hell, _we've_ got an extradition treaty with them.”

“We should send a copy of the letter to our lawyer,” says Tommy, taking this unreasonable curveball frustratingly calmly.

“This is absolutely batshit insane." Lovett is decidedly not calm. “And exactly the kind of bullshit you end up with when you put a small group of people who happened to have the most blood-thirsty ancestors a thousand years ago in charge of a whole fucking country and then only let them procreate with each other, just to really amplify all the flaws in the gene pool." At this juncture, Lovett has to get up and pace. "Are you seriously saying that you, a free citizen of the USA, have no choice but to take the throne of a country so shitty and insignificant that I had barely heard of it? A country that can’t even muster its own useless aristocrats—a low bar that before today I would not have thought any nation could struggle with—and has to kidnap its rulers from other countries?” Lovett turns to Jon expectantly. Someone has to answer for this, and lucky for him, he's got the future king right here with him.

"It's actually a pretty nice place," is all Jon can offer in return.

"Is it? Is it really? That's lucky, since I guess you're going to have to live there forever, or go on the run to Mexico." Lovett may be getting a little hysterical. "Let's google countries without extradition treaties that have good broadband, you might still be able to call in to the pod sometimes."

"Lovett," says Tommy, in his most quelling shut the fuck up voice.

He shuts the fuck up.

“There is another option,” says Jon. “They can reject me. It’s not treason if the Queen decides I’m not fit for the throne."

“Great!” says Lovett, “we’ve got a plan. Favs will use all the wrong forks, maybe knock down a tower of champagne glasses, and they’ll realize that this won’t work.” He takes in the sight of Jon, who even wearing one of his least flattering shirts, with a face like someone told him he's going to be put on trial for treason, because that is an actual thing that is happening, looks like Prince Eric crossed with an even hotter, non-animated man. This will never work. “Can you make your accent a bit more nasal?”

"What about Andy?" asks Tommy.

"My half-brother on the wrong side Andy?"

"Shit."

“The bar for rejecting me is going to be pretty high. According to this letter, if it’s not me, they probably have to give the throne to the Genovian equivalent of Eric Trump or go so far up the family tree they may as well start DNA testing the population of Genovia to see who’s most related to them. It’s going to take more than a few social faux pas for them to call it quits.”

“What if you knocked the tower of champagne glasses onto the Queen?” suggests Lovett. Jon laughs softly, but shakes his head. Lovett pitches again. “Didn’t you say crime rules you out? I’m sure we can find a minor felony for you to commit. What's less bad than treason?”

“Crime is rarely the answer,” says Jon, “and the crime has to be brought to Genovian courts." He's rolling and unrolling the letter compulsively. It's the most Lovett has ever seen him fidget. "No, you’re right. I’m going to have to seem completely unsuitable, including knocking over any precarious arrangements of expensive food and drink that I can.” Jon takes a deep breath and sits up to look at Lovett directly. “But to get to do that, I’m going to have to play along with them for a while, and I'm hoping you could help me out.” He’s using his serious business tone of voice, as if Lovett has ever said no to any request he made in their entire friendship. That wasn't work related. Or food related. Okay, maybe Lovett has been quite difficult about unimportant matters in the past, but he comes through in a crisis.

“Of course,” he says, “what can I do? Do you need tips on how to make small talk awkward?”

“They want me to meet the Queen for dinner tomorrow to discuss my claim to the throne, and I can bring someone. I was hoping you’d come too. As my boyfriend.”

It’s like an actual punch to the stomach. “I see,” Lovett says, crossing his arms defensively. He doesn’t try that hard to keep the hurt out of his voice because frankly, this plan deserves it. "You want to scare them off with the gay Jewish horror. Yeah, that oughta do it.”

Jon’s eyes go wide and horrified, as they very well fucking should do. “No! I didn’t mean it like that. They're very socially progressive. Parliament even rewrote the constitution to make sure the line of succession wouldn’t get disrupted if any members were in a same-sex marriage." Slightly mollified, Lovett uncurls a little, and Jon continues, tentative. "I thought it might be nice to have someone there, and the invite specifies partners only. Tommy’s married, so you’re my only hope." He hesitates, "Um, and if you wanted to rant about monarchies, that could only help, but you don't have to.”

“I do have a lot of valid points to make about them,” Lovett admits. He knows his strengths.

“Do you still have those shiny brown pants you bought off Amazon?”

“Fuck you, Favreau, I hope they deport you.”

***

Since Lovett doesn’t actually support deporting law-abiding contributors to American society, both in general and in this very specific case, he ends up agreeing to Jon’s insane request. He even, despite having seen some deeply unflattering images of himself in them on Twitter, fishes the brown pants out of the back of his closet. Because he is a fantastic friend.

Which is why, when Jon turns up at his door to collect him the next evening, he greets him by saying, "What the fuck?"

"Um, hello to you too,” says Jon, as if he has any right to be affronted.

"You look like a perfume advert.” Jon is wearing his second best suit, and that ranking is the only concession he has made to appearing unsuitable to hold the fate of a nation in his hands. "They'll coronate you right there in the hotel lobby."

Jon tugs on one of his cuffs. "It seems rude to meet a queen in jeans."

"That is the literal point of this whole exercise. Do you see me in my senator sweater?"

"I thought I could start by expressing some radical economic opinions, and see how that lands."

"Oh you'll do that. And you'll do it in a 'Repeal and Fuck yourself' t-shirt, like the loose cannon with no respect that you are". Lovett grabs Jon by his perfectly pressed sleeve and drags him through into his bedroom. "Thankfully, with great forethought and insight, I've been stockpiling your rejected clothes for several years." Lovett starts sifting through the clothes on his floor, looking for the over washed black cotton of their edgiest merch.

"We'll be late," protests Jon.

"Good!"

Jon rolls his eyes, but he's pulling his suit jacket off, and unbuttoning his shirt. When he starts taking that off too, Lovett looks away from the bare skin revealed and swallows. Where the fuck is that shirt?

"Is this an admission that lateness is off-putting?" asks Jon. He's just as perfectly tanned and touchable looking as he was every other time Lovett had to endure the sight of his naked torso, but they're in Lovett's damn bedroom, which so much worse than a pool, or the beach, or a DC bar, where Lovett can hang a lantern on how good he looks by wolf whistling at him.

Lovett throws the t-shirt at his head.

***

They're barely fifteen minutes late, which is more subtle than Lovett had hoped, but at least a start at building a profile of Jon as a nightmare to work with.

The ridiculously uniformed guard from the other day meets them in the lobby of the Hotel Bel-Air, this time wearing a much more normal looking black leather jacket. "Your highness," he says, bowing at Jon.

"Right. That's me. Thanks, um Joe, is it?" Joe nods, and there is a moment of awkward silence, before Jon reaches out to grab Lovett's hand in his and tug him closer. “This is my fiancé, Jon Lovett. You met yesterday.”

At the word fiancé, Lovett takes a sharp breath, chokes on it, and only halfway manages to make this look normal by having a coughing fit.

Once it has passed, Joe inclines his head in grudging greeting.

"I'll take you through."

Jon does not let go of his hand as they follow Joe through the hotel grounds. In fact, he's squeezing it so hard that it's kind of uncomfortable. Lovett is also very aware that their clasped hands are getting slightly clammy. Maybe it's his sweat, maybe it's Jon's, but either way it's gross. He wishes he'd had a chance to prepare for this hand holding. There probably isn't anything he could do physically, but maybe if he'd had a chance to brace himself mentally he wouldn't be hyper focused on the feeling of his hand in Jon's.

Jon's hand is so much bigger than his, long fingers wrapped around Lovett's. Which, now he comes to think of it, are just sitting there limply. Is this the handholding equivalent of a limp handshake? Does he seem totally passive right now? He can't really squeeze back, since his hand is totally engulfed. Subtly, Lovett tries to gain some leverage. Somehow he ends up weaving his fingers between Jon's, and instantly regrets it. It feels about ten times more intimate. He looks up at Jon, trying to gauge if this new level of finger interlocking has disgusted him, but he just glances back at him with a fond smile.

Right. They're meant to be dating. They're meant to be _engaged_. Apparently. Engaged people do whatever they like with each other's bodies. They love each other's clammy, limp hands.

Lovett really thought his acting skills were better than this. He didn’t realize Jon’s were so good. He certainly hasn't been bringing this kind of verisimilitude to any of their promotional videos.

Before Lovett knows it, the journey to the Queen's detached hotel suite has passed in a flash of hand related anxiety, and Jon and he are being shepherded towards a living room.

For a few wild seconds, Lovett is expecting a throne, some opulent piece of monarchical theatre shipped from Europe to over-awe the Americans, but all there is a well put together older woman in a cream suit. She could be any one of a thousand wealthy local residents.

"Jon," she says in a crisp, unexpectedly British accent, standing up to offer her hand, "it's lovely to meet you. I am so sorry for the rather rude summons."

"Your majesty," says Jon.

"Please, call me Clarisse."

"Clarisse, of course." Jon has his smooth, confident, I-work-with-the-President voice on, which is not at all helping them work towards their long term goal. He must be a bit more flustered than he appears though, because Lovett has to tug his hand quite hard to get it away from Jon when Clarisse turns to him and holds out her hand.

"Confusingly, I'm also Jon," he says, "Jon Lovett".

"My fiancé," adds Jon.

If Clarisse is startled by this, she hides it well. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner,” she says, leading them over to a dining table in the corner.

They quickly exhaust general introductions, but Clarisse—of course, since socializing is the closest things monarchs have to a real job now that commanding armies of their citizens to a brutal death in order to cement their grip on power is on the decline in the western world—is adept at small talk. And not so small talk.

"I take from your t-shirt that you are in favor of universal healthcare?" she says, as the starter, some kind of Waldorf salad made with pears instead of apples, is served. “I think you will find the system in Genovia much more satisfactory."

This leads them into a long discussion about the recent turns in American healthcare, about which Clarisse is surprisingly well informed, as well as various European systems and how they compare to it. The salad plates are cleared away, a pear and chicken pastilla is wheeled in and served, and the conversation moves to welfare and pensions. It's nothing they haven't talked through to the point of boredom before, but Clarisse is an excellent audience. A delicious looking pear and chocolate mousse is being put down in front of Lovett before he even realizes that neither of them has been remotely rude the whole time. Jon in fact, has been his best and most intelligent self, eloquent and compassionate, gesturing with his hands as he relaxes and gets more persuasive, a brilliant ambassador for whatever he's talking about at the time.

Damn, she's good.

The only abrupt conversational move comes from the Queen herself, when she brings up the elephant in the room. "Jon," she says, as Lovett is finishing up the half of Jon's mousse that he hadn't wanted, "I owe you an apology. My letter was heavy handed. I suspected that an adult with their own successful business and established roots in America might not be as amenable as some to accepting a new life abroad."

"Does that mean you won't prosecute me for treason if I refuse?" asks Jon, highly relevantly.

Clarisse continues as if Jon has not spoken. "I wanted the chance to meet you in person. Now that I have, I'm more determined than ever that you are not only the most viable candidate in terms of bloodline, but that I must do whatever I can to secure you for the future of Genovia."

Her statement lands like a stone in the bottom of Lovett's stomach. It had been all too easy, in the midst of Clarisse’s practiced social greasing, to forget that Jon is basically here under duress. This is a timely fucking reminder.

"I am hoping,” continues Clarisse, glossing over the nasty silence that follows her proclamation, "that I can avoid having to pursue that path and persuade you of the great opportunity that you have been offered.”

"How do you propose to do that?" Jon's voice is still polite and calm, but there's a definite tightness underlying it.

"First, by teaching you a bit more about your father's homeland, and the benefits and responsibilities of your position in our society. Are you available the next few evenings?"

For some reason, Jon glances over at Lovett before answering. "I am."

"Wonderful. If you can make your way here as soon as you are free after work, we can get started on lessons and clothing. Then you can put what you've learned into practice at dinner on Sunday with some of the more immediate family and members of our government. Get a flavor of the people you might be working with.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin, an entirely superfluous move, since she has eaten her meal in tiny, delicate bites and spilled absolutely nothing. Lovett rubs self-consciously at a splotch of mousse on his thigh and makes the happy discovery that his brown Amazon pants are wipe clean. “In two weeks, there will be a ball. Everyone will be in attendance: members of the family, the cabinet, the Genovian press. I propose that we both promise to reserve any final judgment until then. I'm sure that at that point, we can come to some kind of agreement.”

***

"I don't think she actually wants to throw you into whatever dungeon they keep traitors in," says Lovett, when the door to their Lyft closes behind them. "Or is that more of a tower thing? Do they keep nobility in towers?"

"Mmmm?" says Jon, who may or may not be listening. He had grabbed Lovett's hand as they left and is still holding it. Jon's thumb rubs across Lovett's palm, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

"Okay Daniel Day-Lewis." Lovett tugs his hand away before he makes a fool of himself. "Unless you think the reach of the world's most inconsequential monarchy extends to my Lyft app, you can drop the act now."

"Right, sorry," says Jon. "What were you rambling about?"

With a maturity that he knows Jon will not appreciate, Lovett lets that dig go. "I was _saying_ that I don't think she's actually going to go after you if you say no. She didn't seem completely unreasonable."

"Did you not hear her say that she was more determined than ever to do whatever she can to ‘secure me for Genovia’?” Jon flaps his fingers about in what he thinks are quote fingers. It looks more like he’s miming two overexcited rabbits.

"Well yeah, but destroying your life isn't going to help her do that. Once you say no it's over. Wreaking bloody revenge won't change your decision."

"Is the phrase 'bloody revenge' meant to persuade me to relax? Treason is a capital offense."

"Metaphorical bloody revenge."

"You're probably right," says Jon, in his 'but...' tone of voice. “But why risk it? Playing along gives me more opportunity to seem unsuitable, and she's more likely to let me go without a fuss if she thinks I've given her a chance.” He glances sideways at Lovett. "You're officially off the hook though. Daily etiquette lessons are a bit much even for a non-fake fiancé."

It's a good offer. Lovett is no keener to spend his precious Portal time learning about the upper echelons of a country he's probably never going to than he was last week, which is to say, zero percent keen. He's negative keen to do it while being touchy-feely enough to fool a bunch of diplomats into thinking he's engaged, but not so touchy-feely that it freaks out his straight best friend, who he has spent a lot of time and effort mentally de-sexualizing. With mixed results. But Lovett's hand is still aching slightly from how desperately Jon had clutched it, and he can't bring himself to send him back there alone, with no hand to squeeze.

"You're not robbing me of the opportunity to get another free bespoke suit," he says, instead of the sensible no he should be giving. Apparently it's time to reap the fruits of all that emotional wall building and platonic reinforcement he's been doing. "There's a world of lapel choices out there, and I'm betting the royal tailor has more opinions about them than the usual louts I associate with."

"So you're in?" asks Jon, lighting up in that aggravating way he does.

"I'm in."

They spend the most of the ride bickering back and forth about their supposed love story. Lovett is all for them having a torrid, Montagues and Capulets style romance in 2008, love across the Democratic primary barricades and all that. Jon keeps pointing out how many people they've dated since then, and how them being romantically involved in the White House while Jon was his boss would have been unethical, and how a small lie is more sensible than a big lie. He's also oddly resistant to Lovett's suggestion that one day he found Jon in his garden, trying to peep into Lovett's bedroom after dark, but that Lovett decided to find it charming rather than call the police.

"We're trying to make you seem wildly unsuitable," Lovett says, saliently and to no avail.

"No," replies Jon, not engaging with the substance of Lovett's arguments at all, even though he's compromised a lot in response to Jon's.

Eventually, Lovett agrees to a very prosaic story about how their friendship has blossomed—slowly and mutually, with no trespassing—into romance. How it's all very recent, but they know each other so well that they don't think they need to wait to get married. Boring and sweet and horribly, achingly plausible. With the ease of someone long used to ignoring his feelings for Jon Favreau, Lovett turns his thoughts away from how building an eerily realistic narrative of a romance that didn’t happen and never will happen makes him feel, and changes the subject too, while he's at it.

"How long have you been keeping this under your hat?"

"What?" Jon's acting skills have retreated again. He knows exactly what Lovett is asking.

"Somehow, in nearly a decade of friendship, including countless media profiles where it would have been a very charming anecdote, and starting a business together, the fact that you're nearly a prince has never come up."

“It snuck up on me.”

“It snuck up on you,” repeats Lovett, flatly.

"I wasn’t almost a prince, not really. My birth father may have been some kind of nobility, but he was about twentieth in line when I born, which usually requires a revolution level massacre to become relevant. I haven't been keeping up with all the deaths and disownments since." Jon looks away from Lovett, out of the car window, a sure sign that he's not saying everything.

"You never wanted to get to know them? Maybe get invited to some fancy parties?"

"I do know some of them," says Jon, reluctantly. "When I was little I spent a few summers with my cousins."

“Only a few? Why did you stop going?”

"It was horrible," says Jon, with feeling. "They were all mean and cliquey, speaking in French and making up fake Genovian customs to get me into trouble. Then one summer the rest of my family was going to Disneyland, and Andy would have rubbed that in forever if I missed it, so I told them I hated going there, and that was that." He takes a breath as if there's more, but doesn't go on until Lovett raises an eyebrow at him. "And the whole thing made everyone sad. It was a reminder to my dad that he isn't my biological father, and to my mom that her first husband died, and Andy was jealous, even though I told him it sucked. I missed out on all the summer plans, and I missed my family, and I don't even remember my birth father. It seemed like more trouble than it was worth to keep up with it."

The natural puppy eyes that Jon is blessed with, and that the rest of them are cursed to grapple with on the rare occasions something upsets him, make it horribly easy for Lovett to picture a smaller, even softer version of Jon, alone in some draughty European castle, only cold governesses there to comfort him when he's homesick, and cruel, handsome cousins waiting around every corner to try and get him disowned. What an utter pack of bastards.

Now that it's been put on the table for other reasons, Lovett finds he really wants to pick Jon's hand up in his and _comfort_ him, which is very inconvenient, and stifles his tried and tested method of saying something funny to cheer him up.

"Did you note all these foreign contacts on your SF-86 form?" is the best he can come up with. Ever easy, Jon laughs anyway, and things feel normal again.

***

They have separate actual work-related meetings the next afternoon, so Lovett arranges to meet Jon at his house and head over to the hotel together for their introduction to Genovian high society. Also, he thought of a good joke as he lay in bed last night and can't wait until the opportunity arises organically to do it. He stands outside Jon's house and links up to his Sonos.

Incredibly, he gets through to the second verse of 'I Just Can't Wait To Be King' before Jon flings his front door open and discovers him outside.

"You're a child," he says, but he doesn't make Lovett turn it off. A decision that, judging by his glare, he regrets when they park at the hotel and Lovett points out that he's humming the song under his breath.

In the Queen's suite, a small gaggle of besuited men are standing in a circle. They turn towards the door as it opens and Lovett experiences a disorienting sensation not unlike stepping inside a House of Mirrors. Three slightly off-kilter versions of Jon's face look him up and down. Initially, none of them look particularly impressed with what they see. It makes Lovett appreciate the expression his Jon's face makes when he sees him in a whole new way.

They're enthusiastic enough to see Jon. "Cousin!" one of them exclaims. He claps his hands onto Jon's shoulders and pulls him in for a full European double cheek kiss. It's enough to make Lovett feel wistful for the overfamiliar Californian hugging that he normally tries to wriggle out of. He's braced for his own make-out session with this chinless version of his best friend when he remembers that he has an unprecedented license to be rude. Ignoring the incipient embrace that is now being turned on him, he sticks a hand out in the universal "shake on it" sign. The cousin takes the hint, though he does feel the need to use both hands to shake Lovett's one hand, clasping the extraneous one around Lovett's wrist like a warrior from a fantasy novel.

"And this must be your lovely fiancé," he says, moving Lovett's arm vigorously up and down as if he's trying to transmit a transverse wave down it.

"Yes, this is Lovett," says Jon, putting an arm around Lovett's shoulder and pulling him in, so that Chinless Jon is finally forced to release him. "Lovett, meet Antoine. We spent a few summers together in Genovia. And these are Gaspard," he points at a slightly older version of Antoine, "and Marius". Marius is somehow using even more hair product than Jon does, and has a vacant look in his eyes, like he's day dreaming about putting a peasant into the stocks.

"Charmed," lies Lovett. He stays tucked under Jon's arm, a ballast against any more unwanted social advances. If Jon wants to get stuck in there then he can let go anytime, but until then they can cover each other's backs.

"It must be almost thirty years since we met in person," says Antoine. He's smiling widely and unconvincingly. This appears to be the branch of the family that gifted Jon with his terrible acting skills.

"Almost," agrees Jon.

"We used to have such lovely lazy summers together," continues Antoine, gazing into the middle distance. He seems to still be stuck in fantasy warrior mode, even though his skinny aristocratic arms look like they'd barely lift a broadsword. "Swimming in the lake, stealing food from the kitchens, dressing up for dinner every evening. It's a shame you stopped coming."

"Uh huh." Jon takes his arm off Lovett’s shoulders, but only to slide a hand down his arm and take Lovett's sweaty paw into his own. Lovett's spine prickles in time with the drag of Jon's hand down his arm, a totally normal physiological response to the stimulus. With his other hand, Jon waves at Joe across the room. "We should probably go," he says to the three stooges. "Lots to catch up on from those thirty years."

"He seemed smarmy," says Lovett as they leave, voice low but tone upbeat in case people are listening.

"He's a weaselly little liar," replies Jon, heated and not at all discrete. Well, they're not here to make friends. "He pushed me into the damn lake, and I ate my lunch in the kitchen with the cook because she was the nicest person there."

"What a dick," said Lovett. He is once again seized by the image of poor innocent baby Jon, this time bobbing in an icy lake while his cousins laugh at him, or kicking his little legs in the kitchen, hanging out with adults instead of playing outside. He hopes that the cook spat in everyone else's fancy soup. "We should go back there and mispronounce his name. You let me at him, I'll really mangle it."

"As satisfying as that would be," says Jon, "we actually do have places to be."

Sure enough, Joe leads them through a curtain, where a man in a black suit is bouncing on his toes between what appear to be two 90s backing dancers in shiny snakeskin raincoats. He lets out a sharp gasp when Lovett enters the room first. Lovett tries not to interpret the look on his face as dismay, which gets harder when Jon steps into the room behind him and the man’s face lights up in marked contrast. "Now this Paolo can work with," he says, clearly referring to himself in the third person. Fantastic. "And where is the lovely fiancé?"

Jon makes yet another grab for Lovett's hand—they may as well handcuff themselves together he's got so clingy—and tugs Lovett across the few inches of space he'd attempted to preserve between them. "This is my fiancé," he says, beaming with pride. The overacting makes Lovett squirm even more than the judgment had. He doesn't have to lay it on so thick.

“Ah." Paulo's eyes rake up and down Lovett. "Well, it is good to have a challenge. How else will the world know what Paulo is capable of?" He pushes a rack of colorful cocktail dresses away theatrically and claps his hands twice, like a matador or a pretentious dickhead. "Prepare the canvases!"

One of the backing dancers, who turns out to be implacably strong, has Lovett in a reclining chair, wrapped in a length of fabric that serves as both protective gear and restraint, by the time he realizes that he is one of the canvases. She tips his chair back and starts rubbing some kind of cream all over his face.

"Is that meant to be gritty?" Lovett asks, because it's very gritty. She gives him a dismissive look and rubs harder. Okay, apparently preparing him involves removing a layer or two of his epidermis. Sure.

When she eventually wipes his face off and tips him back up so he can see himself in the mirror, Lovett has to admit that his skin is glowing. Stinging, and glowing.

"Um, thanks," he says. "Should I try on a suit now, or?"

Her hands go for his face, firmly pressing a bit of paper down on his nose. Based on what he's seen of women getting bits of paper or fabric stuck to their skin in popular culture, this seems bad. Lovett lets out a yelp when, quick as a whip, she rips it off. "My nose isn't even hairy," he protests, rubbing his nose. It didn't actually hurt that much, but the principle stands.

A pair of tweezers appears next, and those Lovett can identify. "Nope," he says, starting to struggle out from under his cape, "nope nope nope". Thankfully, she rolls her eyes and puts them away without protest. He attempts to deflect the vegetable blindfold that's up next—a blatant attempt to deny him one of his most important defensive senses—more playfully by eating the cucumber slices, but his captor is not charmed. She doesn't persist, but she definitely gets out the next mysterious substance with a chilling smirk.

Based on her expression, Lovett is half expecting a chemical peel, but it turns out to be some kind of pleasant emollient. She delivers it via what Lovett suspects should be a soothing face massage, though it does not have that effect on him.

Finally, the face related segment of the ordeal appears to be over, and she moves onto a manicure. This at least is vaguely recognizable. Halfway through, Paolo reappears, bearing a comb and some scissors. 

"I've already got a hairdresser," Lovett says, warily.

"So-called," Paolo replies, fluffing the top of Lovett's head. "I think we can do better."

Lovett is glad, when he's done, that he hadn't defended Brad too vociferously, because his hair does look pretty good. He's trying to assess whether or not he has too much dignity to ask for haircare tips when Paolo sweeps back out of the room, promising to return to "manage his wardrobe".

Left alone, Lovett spends a good fifteen minutes scrolling through twitter before he gets restless and starts browsing idly through the rack of dresses that had once been intended for him.

Initially, he had merely intended to pass judgment on the state of upper class European fashion (in a pretty similar place to American prom fashion, but with slightly less cleavage), but halfway through the rack, an idea begins to percolate in his brain. If Jon was here, Lovett would probably make a joke about it and enjoy the eye roll. But Jon is off having god knows what done to burnish his already distractingly good face, and once again, Lovett has an unprecedented license to do what he wants. Lovett starts reconsidering the dresses in a new light- does he want a flattering one or the worst one he can lay his hands on? The selection is, he now realizes, annoyingly tasteful, ruling out a full skirted taffeta joke. But he's sure that the comic effect will win through no matter what he picks. 

Furtive, he strips off his street clothes and reaches for a red, A-line, boat necked number. Incredibly, it kind of fits. Perhaps his rough measurements, but not his gender, had been transmitted to whoever put this rack of clothes together? He can't reach the zip—either it never occurred to the designer that someone without a ladies maid would so much as try the dress on, or it's intended for people who can dislocate their shoulder at will—but it's not bad. 

Lovett strikes a pose in front of the mirror, hip cocked and chin lifted defiantly, and laughs out loud. He's got to find Jon. He'll die of some combination of embarrassment and laughter, and no matter what the proportions of each, Lovett really wants to see that. And if someone sees him, no matter. It will only help them seem more unconventional. It’s all very freeing. Lovett hadn't thought he'd been holding himself back that much out of fear of society's approbation, but clearly its norms were more pervasive than he'd thought.

Incredibly, he finds Jon in the first room he looks in. He hasn’t been dramatically made over, but somehow, it’s arresting. His hair is softer than usual—it looks like Paolo does not approve of Jon’s usual Ken doll look—and he's glowing even more than he normally does, which is frankly irresponsible. He's also wearing some kind of faux military regalia and, despite the fact that this is technically much more ridiculous than Lovett wearing a dress, he does not look at all incongruous. He looks stupidly, annoyingly good. Like you could entrust him with the safety of a nation. Lovett feels a new sense of empathy for Tommy every time he's confronted with a person in uniform.

At least Jon's face looks plenty dumb as he gapes at Lovett in his dress.

"Hey," Lovett says, "what do you think? I told them red is your favorite color." He feels unexpectedly bashful now that he's found Jon, and Jon looks like… _that_ , but it’s too late to call it off. Lovett has committed to making this a bit, a perfectly normal bit such as he engages in on the regular. With better props. The first thing that springs to mind to say is, "Zip me up?"

He turns his back to Jon, which is a relief. He’s mostly expecting a playful shove, but really, who knows what he's expecting? He cannot emphasize enough how much he truly has not thought this through. Instead, he senses Jon step up close behind him and realizes, the instant before Jon's warm hand touches the small of his back, that Jon is going through with it, and that he has made a terrible, terrible error. His senses dial up with every slick, mechanical click of the zipper as Jon pulls it, way too slowly, upwards. Jon's fingers brush against Lovett's bare skin, and he shivers in response like a clichéd Victorian heroine. The knowledge that he looks a bit ridiculous and that this is a joke falls away, and for a few milliseconds, the bizarre role-play he's accidentally constructed feels horribly sexy.

As firmly as he can, Lovett reminds himself that this is a bit. Jon is playing along, as he often does, and doesn't even suspect that Lovett might make this weird. But fucking hell, it's been eons, and Jon is still, somehow, doing up the fucking dress.

At long last, the zipper reaches its apex, and Jon puts his hands on Lovett's shoulders, playing his role in the trope perfectly.

Lovett's up next, and he has a few seconds to get his face in order. He can totally do that. So this is a romantic cliché for a reason. Now he knows that, and he can put these sensations in their proper place and manage the next part of this whatever it is with dignity. This game of skit chicken. He turns, and finds Jon standing closer than he expected. Close up, Jon looks even better in the uniform than Lovett remembered from before the eternal zipping began.

Lovett's hand rises of its own accord to rest on Jon's firm, betassled chest. He looks up at his absurd, handsome face with what he absolutely does not admit would normally be his coy, flirtatious look. The I-may-not-be-handsome-but-aren't-I-goddamn-cute glance up that he breaks out in more appropriate settings, actual real romantic ones, instead of fake ones where he's helping out his platonic straight friend. Whatever. He doesn’t actually bat his eyelashes, and someone could be watching. It would be weird not to react to this vision.

Jon is clearly on the same page re:observers, because he is looking down at Lovett with an expression that Lovett has only evoked in his most self-indulgent fantasies about the power of his own debatable cuteness. For several long moments they look into each other’s eyes, and it doesn’t feel like a game. It feels like something is about to happen, and if Lovett isn’t careful, he’s going to get crazy ideas about what it might be. 

"Does this count as stolen valor?" he asks, breaking under the weight of Jon's uncharacteristically credible acting.

"It's ceremonial,” says Jon, only a beat later than he should have.

Lovett is still formulating his reply when a voice behind him says, “That length isn't the most flattering for your height.” It is, naturally, the Queen. Despite the fact that she seems remarkably unfazed by the odd tableau, she’s a highly effective bucket of cold water on whatever lingering nonsense is going on in Lovett’s head.

"While you're in that uniform," says Clarisse, "we can take a few photographs."

Jon's eyebrows go right up. "Photographs?" he asks. "We didn't discuss press, but I assumed we would be keeping this discrete until we made a final decision."

"Of course," replies Clarisse, "I completely agree. However, some low-key pieces in the Genovian press about reconnecting with your roots will be helpful whether you accept your role as heir, or want to create cover for attending the banquet in the event that you do not. People will notice your presence, and if you don’t have a story, they will make up their own.”

Unfortunately, that makes sense. Jon turns to look at Lovett, and he gives a what-can-you-do shrug to indicate that he grudgingly accepts the Queen's logic.

"We should get some shots with your fiancé as well. I think the plain charcoal suit will look better alongside the uniform though."

Paolo hurries Lovett away with a scandalized flapping of his hands and by the time he's back, this time in a more conventional suit, invisibly bristling with pins, the photographer has started on the solo shots. Jon’s royal cosplay is, of course, perfect. He could believably ride a horse at the front of an army, except that he's far too clean and pretty. Lovett tries to hang back, not wanting to interrupt, but the moment Jon sees him his face lights up, and he's holding a hand out to Lovett to drag him into the frame. They take a few couple shots, in which the photographer won't let Lovett stand on his toes, even though he knows he's going to look like a child in his father's suit if he doesn't.

"Trust me," she says, exasperated, "it looks worse your way." She snaps a couple more of them when Jon laughs in response, first to her comment, and then to Lovett's suggestion that Jon bend his knees instead if he isn't going to take his fiancé’s side.

"And now kiss," she says, off-hand, casual, completely unaware of the sledgehammer she's swung back and the shattering blow that now hangs, poised, over one of Lovett's most important relationships.

But only if he screws this up and lets himself forget what they're doing.

Jon looks down at Lovett, a deer in gay headlights. Lovett feels like this is probably up to him. Right, no problem, no big deal. One totally fake, completely unsexy PG kiss between friends that looks real on the outside coming up. The pause is already on the long side, so before he can overthink it Lovett reaches up, grabs Jon's tie, and tugs him down. Time seems to slow as Jon's face smashes through the invisible barrier that demarcates normal friend-level personal space, and enters the zone of romantic intimacy. This is handy, as it helps Lovett successfully land his mouth in the sweet spot at the corner of Jon's lips, enough overlap to be unmistakably a kiss, but enough distance that Lovett will hopefully not manage to save the exact shape and texture of Jon's lips to his permanent memory, where it would torment him forever. He even manages to pop one leg up, for that motion-picture perfect pose, because he is a goddamn professional.

Since his perception of time still seems skewed, Lovett counts out the seconds in his head slowly and deliberately, and pulls back when an appropriate number have passed. Jon is still leaning down towards him, more than friend close, looking kind of out of it. Thankfully, his poor improvisational skills must masquerade naturally as the besotted air of a newly engaged person in love, because the photographer is still clicking away, and no one looks visibly suspicious.

After the photoshoot comes tea with the cousins and a "brief" introductory lecture about Genovia. It's late by the time they emerge, blinking and slightly dazed, into the hotel grounds. The night air is shockingly cool on Lovett's brand new layer of face skin.

"Why the fuck do I know so much about pears now?" asks Lovett. It's rhetorical. He's absorbed all too much information about Genovia's most famous and marketable crop and is aware of precisely how important it is to culture, tourism and national identity.

"Some of it was interesting," replies Jon, distracted. He takes a deep breath, alerting Lovett to the fact that he's about to say something controversial. "That was kind of awkward, wasn't it? The photos, I mean.” Before Lovett can concur he adds, in a rush, “We should practice."

Immediately, Lovett is wary. "Kissing?" he asks, alarmed. This whole thing is nerve wracking enough without getting into some kind of ridiculous, teenage, it's-not-gay-I'm-just-practicing scenario. He's not falling for that again. It's always gay for him. "I've seen that porno."

"What?" says Jon. "No, I mean like, holding hands."

"You've been holding my hand all day." Lovett can hear his voice rising with agitation, but seriously, Jon has. Lovett has been painfully aware of every second of it.

"You know what I mean." Lovett really doesn't. "Not just holding hands. Being coupley. It should seem normal for us, and it doesn’t seem normal, because it isn’t. Therefore, we should practice.”

If that is meant to be a critique of his performance, Lovett wants to lodge a complaint with the judges. Jon's the one who escalated their fake romance without warning him, which threw him off the first night. The kiss may not have been Lovett's best work, but he was working under pressure and with a very green partner. "Maybe we're the kind of couple who doesn't rub their PDA in other people's faces," he grumbles.

On the other hand, he does want this to work, so things can go back to normal as soon as possible. Maybe practice will make perfect? He's already learned never to ask Jon to dress him again. That's the kind of lesson only hands-on practical work will teach you. So far the touching has got worse and worse—or better and better, depending on your perspective—but steady exposure might help. Surely even Jon's hands will become commonplace if he feels them enough?

"Fine,” says Lovett. “But if we're going to be playing footsie at work, we should probably explain to the staff. I don't want them to think I'm sexually harassing you."

***

Tommy frowns when they explain the addition that they want to make to the weekly staff meeting agenda, but he waits until Lovett is alone to raise his concerns verbally. Lovett curses the intern that had been too busy to fetch him a Diet Coke, forcing him to separate from the herd and leaving him isolated and vulnerable. He clearly needs them to start taking him more seriously.

"Is this a good idea?" Tommy asks.

"What, you think I can’t control myself?" replies Lovett, aggressively. In his defense, he's feeling cornered. Both figuratively, because Tommy seeking him out as if he's the liability in the situation is equal parts rude and perceptive, and literally, because Tommy has him hemmed in between the office kitchen counter and his giant, muscular body, forcing Lovett to choose between making eye contact with Tommy's nipples or his serious blue eyes.

Lovett settles on eyes, which is a mistake, because they are marginally more expressive. Tommy's eye roll is that damning combination of commanding and teenage that only he can pull off. "I’m just worried that you haven’t thought this through."

"Jon asked me to do this." Why do people keep forgetting that Lovett is doing this as a favor? It's not like pawing at Jon is some whim of his. It's a generous gift to their good friend. A vital act of service to support the continued citizenship of a third of Crooked Media's founders. What has Tommy done lately to protect their fledgling business' USP?

"Fine, I'm worried you and Jon haven't thought this through. I thought you'd have a better understanding of why I'm worried."

Right. Because Lovett is the gay idiot one who might let his feelings get out of hand and mess with their friendship, business and—to grossly inflate their importance for maximum drama—the continued health of the very democracy they live in. Jon isn't in any danger of fucking this up with real feelings. He's protected by the impenetrable shield of his straightness and his total lack of awareness of Lovett as a sexual object.

Lovett's not a complete idiot. He is aware of the fact that this plan started out as reckless and is already swinging past that towards potentially catastrophic, for all he's trying to convince himself otherwise. That doesn't stop it being horrible to find out that Tommy knows his weakness too. That he thinks it's obvious enough that they're going to discuss it calmly as a liability. Not on Lovett's fucking watch they're not.

"You thought wrong, because I don't see any potential problems." Lovett cracks open his can and takes a calm yet defiant swig. Yeah, he can layer a lot of meaning into drinking a coke. He’s a goddamn communications professional. "It's a great plan and it's going really well. Yesterday I walked a group of Genovian nobility through the Boston tea party while we had an actual tea party and somebody nearly choked on their scone. A lack of tolerance for our impudent revolutionary ways builds daily."

Lies lies lies. Well, not the part about the tea party. He really did get one of the funhouse mirror Jons to inhale his dry, crumbly, baked good. But for Lovett to imply that he doesn't see emotional disaster barrelling down at him is downright disingenuous.

His heart is beating hard, but he's convincing enough that Tommy lets it go. For the moment. His face is still flat and suspicious at the staff meeting when Jon stands and awkwardly clears his throat. Which means now Lovett has something to prove, to Tommy and to himself.

"Lovett and I have an announcement," says Jon.

"We're getting married!" Lovett chimes in. Most people laugh, because it's funny. And it's only funny because no one has any reason, real or imagined, to think that he might be serious. The idea of him and Jon getting married is as preposterous as it ever was and that, in this crazy world, is a victory. Take that, Tommy's judgmental, vestigial eyebrows.

"Um, I mean, not quite," says Jon, "but kind of yes," and the meeting descends into chaos.

***

"There are rarely any guarantees in court," their lawyer begins, "and obviously the international aspect complicates things, but my assessment is that you are unlikely to be successfully convicted of treason."

Lovett blinks. The way this week has been going, he had been expecting something a lot worse. "That's great," he says, since Jon hasn't said anything.

"While it may be within the letter of Genovia's treason laws, no one has tested those laws in a very long time. When you add in the probable international outcry, your relatively public profile, and the fact that it would look more than a little petty and malicious, prosecuting you is an absurd proposition."

"That's what I've been saying!" Lovett isn't exactly looking for vindication, but seriously, he has been saying that.

"So what should we do?" asks Tommy. "Call their bluff and let them know Favs isn't interested?"

"I can certainly draft a letter-" begins their lawyer.

"Let's hold off," says Jon, inexplicably. Even Tommy looks at him like he's crazy. "We've already got a plan to get out of this without escalating things into the realm of scary lawyer letters."

"Does a strongly worded letter in response to an implicit threat of the guillotine count as escalation?" wonders Lovett aloud.

"If we get to the ball and they're still insistent then we can go that route, but if we have a chance to avoid a legal battle entirely, we may as well take it." Jon shrugs. "And technically they're family, so it would be nice not to piss them off unnecessarily."

Tommy is nodding, which means the plan is pretty much sealed. Along with Lovett's fate.

***

The rest of the week passes in a blur of facts about Genovia and Jon's maddening, casual touching, now freshly enabled in work mode as well as prince mode. Ever the consummate Good Boyfriend, even under these unconventional circumstances, he's slipped into the role with barely a second thought, taking Lovett's hand when they wait at crosswalks like one of them might wander into traffic and opening car doors for Lovett as if he wants to look after him.

Lovett is the one who can't get it together, instinctively twitching away like Melania half the time, and leaning into it like Leo the rest. Even the things that used to be normal—he's sure that some things were normal once—like Jon sitting down close enough that their arms brush when they move, or leaning his head right over Lovett's shoulder to see his computer screen so that all Lovett would have to do is list over a few degrees to touch their faces together, or fucking looking at Lovett when he makes a stupid joke with that _expression_ he has, feel fraught. Fraught with dangerous opportunities for Lovett to read too much into them, or enjoy them too much, or give something away.

Even more pressingly, it's been a week, and Jon still hasn't been rude to anyone. He's taken to Genovia 101 like a duck to water, offering up his interpretations of their tutor's social theories before he's even asked and taking notes like he'll need to know this stuff one day. If Lovett had been asked he would have guessed that Jon would be an unbearable teacher's pet when he wanted to be, but it's another thing to see it in action. His dumb earnest face is a torment every goddamn day, which Lovett is used to, but now not only does it pose the eternal question, 'why does he look like that?' but the even more pressing, 'why the hell is he trying so hard?'.

The situation is a mess on several fronts, is the point. This is all running through Lovett's head as he approaches the Genovian consulate building for the oxymoronic "small banquet" that marks the halfway point of this ill-advised caper. He hasn't seen Jon since Friday, but the day and a half worth of alone time that he managed to claw back for himself has not quite done the wonders he hoped it would when it comes to pulling himself together. Mostly it has given him time to work up a worst case scenario version of Jon in his head. Imaginary Jon is in there wearing a fake uniform, like a prince, because he is a prince, and Lovett’s presence there is a relic from a previous life. Lovett feels more uncertain than ever about himself, and Jon, and whatever the fuck they're doing.

The consulate entrance hall is cavernous, a vaulted glass ceiling arching over a hall filled with tall leafy plants and snow white statues. Jon is already there, alone, when Lovett arrives, wearing a normal suit and tracing the drapery wrapped around a statue's arm with his hand. For the moment at least, he seems less like a prince, and more like Lovett's secretly nerdy friend, who still touches things he thinks are cool like a small child. A surge of fondness rises in Lovett's chest, a welcome positive incline on the emotional rollercoaster of the past week. He sneaks up behind Jon.

"You're not gonna grope that statue, are you?" he whispers. Startled, Jon jumps, and the statue's gracefully outstretched finger breaks off in his hand.

"Shit!" Jon shouts. His exclamation rings loudly through the large, silent room.

Lovett claps a hand over his mouth, instinctive childish horror at Jon breaking something warring with amusement at his wide eyed panic. Amusement wins out when Jon starts casting about desperately, looking for somewhere to hide the incriminating evidence.

"Is that thing made of polystyrene?" he asks between giggles, "or have you come into your Kryptonian heritage? Wait, does the Genovian throne come with superpowers? Because that changes things."

"Less joking, more helping!"

Lovett holds out his hand, and Jon drops the statue's finger into like a hot potato. "Honesty is the best policy Favreau," he says, as Joe appears to collect them. "We broke your statue." He hands the finger over to Joe, whose face doesn't flicker.

"The Queen would like a word before dinner," is all he says.

Clarisse receives them in a smaller room of gilded chairs. She obviously hasn't got the memo that gold leaf has surpassed tacky and turned toxic since Trump took office.

"I thought this might be a good chance to catch up on how things are progressing," she says. Lovett's eyes flick over to Jon. He wouldn't mind an answer to that question either.

"We're learning a lot," says Jon, in a neutral tone of voice that tells Lovett nothing.

“Ah, a diplomatic answer," Clarisse says, with a hint of approval, "polite but vague”.

"If you're asking for my answer now-" begins Jon. Lovett tenses, but the Queen doesn't let him finish.

"Of course not," she says, holding up a hand. "That is not what we agreed. You will have to forgive me for getting a bit impatient. The political situation in Genovia is getting tense, with no heir yet named to the throne."

"I thought the monarchy was largely ceremonial?" says Lovett. He's been listening occasionally.

"Ceremony can be very powerful. I don't need to tell the two of you how precarious the world feels at the moment. Genovia, Europe, needs stability." Great, this is the last thing Lovett needs. An actual queen laying it on so thick that Jon starts to feel bad for not taking a place as a nepotistic overlord in another country.

"Does an American interloper count as stability?" Jon asks.

"More than Marius. The family historian has confirmed that after Jon, he's the next family member in line for the throne." Her shoulders sink a little, posture momentarily four percent off perfect. On her, it’s jarring. Jon frowns, like the guilt trip might be working. Fucking fantastic. Damn his stupidly active sense of duty, and his fucking savior complex.

"Between you and me," Clarisse continues, "he's the most noxious idiot in the whole country and I shudder to think of him with even ceremonial power." She sighs, and sets her shoulders back again. "But that is an issue for another day.” She reaches for a pile of papers. “I also wanted to warn you." Well, that’s ominous, especially from someone who'd already wielded a treason prosecution as a threat without dropping her polite smile. "Someone has been talking to the press in Genovia, and I'm afraid that your reconnection with your roots is not taking the discrete path that we had hoped."

The papers turn out to be a newspaper, which unfolds to a half page shot of Jon in all his youthful glory. Lovett vaguely recognizes it from one of his countless White House era profiles, except someone has put a clip art crown on his head.

"That's certainly not discrete," says Jon, blankly.

"I do not yet know who has been talking, but we will find out. The press are still only speculating, but I thought you should be prepared for a slightly more intense level of interest than you may have anticipated at tonight's banquet."

This kind of violation of the spirit of their agreement seems, to Lovett's mind, like a good opportunity to pull out. Even if they can't actually get her to release Jon, it's at the very least a chance to kick up a dickish fuss. But Jon is saying, "thank you for the warning," in a reasonable tone of voice before Lovett can even try and get a rant on the topic started, squandering his leverage and moral high ground like a red-state Democrat in Congress.

"I hope you are giving my proposition real thought, Jon," she says as they leave.

"That was our agreement," replies Jon, voice still carefully, infuriatingly neutral.

He's probably not considering actually accepting the throne. He's not stupid, and he knows that they're helping people here, in America, their actual home, where people for real need him. But if Jon is considering it, Lovett will straight up murder him. There better be some deeply uncomfortable faux pas coming up at this damn dinner party.

"Keep an eye out for a tower of champagne glasses you can make a scene with," he reminds Jon.

***

Unfortunately, there are no towers of champagne glasses, and Jon is really bad at being rude. Lovett spots three opportunities in the first five minutes of them mingling at pre-dinner drinks, but he breezes right past them without so much as an attempt at seeming anything other than deeply appropriate. Lord Fricker gets drunk on brandy in a shockingly short length of time, and Jon can't even let someone else's bad behavior escalate and sour the mood. He motions to Joe to take Lord Fricker off to a quiet room for a lie-down, actively helping to avoid a scene. It makes Lovett fume. Is Jon trying to get deported? If he really wants to go be King Favreau then fine, or then terrible, but he’s the one who said he didn’t want to, and Lovett can only deploy his natural social awkwardness to ruin so many conversations. Admittedly, even he keeps finding members of the family and government who seem intelligent and interesting and accidentally charming them with his wit and insight, but at least he’s _trying_.

Across the room, the Transport minister is touching Jon's sleeve and laughing. Time for an intervention.

"I just need to borrow my fiancé for a moment." He tucks an arm into Jon's elbow and draws him away. "Reminder," he says, once they're out of earshot, "you're not trying to win these people over. You need to talk about death panels and how there aren't enough guns in Europe and stand a bit too close to people, they hate that."

"Right." Jon looks uncertain.

"Seriously, it's a good job that you brought me along for all this." Lovett jerks his head back towards the Transport minister, who is not mingling. He's still standing where they left him as if he's waiting for Jon's return, even though that's not how parties work. "He's ready to marry you for love, not ambition. Which isn't what you want." Lovett manages to say it like a statement, not a question.

"You’re right. Fuck."

Taking his hand, Jon drags him over to another cluster of people. It's become almost normal for them to touch that way, but he still manages to startle Lovett sometimes with quite how casual and public he is with his fake affection. He tunes in to Jon's conversation with two Genovian ministers. "Trickle-down really hasn't ever been given a fair shake," he is saying. He looks faintly disgusted to be doing so, but in context it works to make him look pompous and entitled.

One of the minsters is looking encouragingly horrified, but the other looks like Christmas has come early. "It's so refreshing to hear that in a young person," he says, clapping Jon on the shoulder. Ah, yes. That could be a problem. Jon turns pleading eyes to Lovett, but they are saved by the literal bell that peals out, calling them to dinner.

 

Despite a promising start, between the main course and dessert, Jon starts slipping back into being all charming and passionate. He thumps on the table to punctuate a point about the importance of a free press, and the prime minister's wife puts an elbow on the table and leans in like, well, like Jon used to when Obama spoke. Starry-eyed. For fuck's sake. Lovett can take him anywhere, even when he doesn't want to.

When two servers appear behind them, one holding a jug of chocolate sauce, and one holding a large tureen of poached pears, Lovett strikes. Time to put all those lessons on Genovian culture to good use.

"Oh, no thank you," he says, leaning over to put a hand on Jon's arm, proprietary. "Jon is actually allergic to pears."

Lovett had made a conscious effort to project his voice, but even he is surprised by this pronouncement’s effect. A hush spreads across the table like a rolling wave, the closest people looking at them in horror, the furthest people turning in confusion to see what has caused the commotion.

"Allergic. To pears?" whispers the minister for tourism, honest to god tears standing in his eyes.

At the far end of the table, someone drops their spoon into their bowl. The clatter rings out damningly into the silence.

"It's more of an intolerance really," says Jon. Perhaps it's his compulsive desire to be liked. Perhaps he has remembered, as Lovett just has, that they have already eaten pears in the presence of the Queen. Either way, Lovett can work with this.

"Yeah, he had the shits all week after that pear mousse," he says. Jon turns to look at him incredulously, and Lovett pretends he doesn't feel his cheeks burning in embarrassment. "But I'll have his." The waiter spoons two pears into his plate, and the rumble of conversation slowly picks up around them.

After a few moments, Jon leans in, a hand on Lovett's knee, lips close enough to Lovett's ear that they nearly brush against it. His scalp prickles. "Was that quite necessary?" he whispers, low but unmistakably pissed off.

"You tell me," Lovett hisses back, as sharply as he can manage in this medium.

Instead of replying, Jon pulls away, angling his body away from Lovett. He only talks to the prime minister's wife for the rest of the meal. He's probably quoting lines from his best speeches at her like poetry or talking about how much he likes puppies.

By the time the port and cheese are brought out (how are these people not all five hundred pounds?), Lovett feels mildly sick. He hates having Jon genuinely mad at him. Rage eating two large poached pears, drowned in what felt like a pointed amount of chocolate sauce, probably hasn't helped, but if his Taco Bell trained stomach is curdling it's more likely psychosomatic. It's just... how the hell else is he supposed to do this? To keep Jon with them, where Tommy and their company need him, where Lovett needs him, when there's a whole country of people realizing how excellent he is? Glumly, Lovett smears some Genovian soft-cheese on a cracker. It tastes too sophisticated for him. Which is to say, like mold.

The port seems to mellow Jon, because as everyone starts getting up to adjourn to the drawing room, whatever room that means in the 21st century, he grabs Lovett's hand yet again, and forces him to dawdle until they're alone.

"I'm sorry," he says. "We should think of a signal I'm slipping that isn't you talking about diarrhea."

"It's hard hiding your especially blinding light under a bushel." Lovett bites on the inside of his lip, trying to choose his words better than he sometimes does. "I didn't mean to embarrass you," he settles on.

"You don't embarrass me," lies Jon, kindly.

"I mean, I sort of did mean to embarrass you. But only because you asked me to." He asks the question that's really on his mind, even if he really doesn't want to hear the answer, because that's what grownups do. "Do you still want me to?"

Instead of answering, Jon steps closer to him and cups a large, warm hand around the side of Lovett's head. Torn between shying away and nuzzling it shamelessly, Lovett freezes. He is suddenly acutely aware of his face, every nerve dialed up to eleven. He can feel the tip of each of Jon's fingers resting on his skin, the brush of his palm on his cheek. "What-"

"We've got company," says Jon, and Lovett hears the clink of the table being cleared behind them.

Right. Appearances. Appearances must be maintained. Lovett forces himself to relax under Jon's hand, and slips into flirty performance mode, smoothing Jon's lapel and turning to give a wry 'you caught us' smile to the staff. "We should probably re-join the party," he says to Jon, trying to sound normal.

Despite his apology, Jon spends the rest of the evening chatting normally to people, normal for him being extremely articulate. He keeps Lovett by his side, a hand tucked into his, or on the small of his back to usher him from conversation to conversation. Lovett lets him take charge and doesn't say much. For once he's not even hyper focused on all the places Jon touches him, preoccupied instead with the answer he never got from Jon.

He fits in with these people, when Lovett isn't trying to drag him down.

***

"We could just not go tonight," says Lovett, as Monday starts to wind down. He thinks he's successful at keeping his tone casual, like this isn't a test of Jon's commitment to his investment in their shared business that he's been building up to all day. "A bit of absenteeism would cast you in a pretty bad light." He holds his breath, waiting for Jon's answer. Why would Jon object, if he didn't _want_ to go to these damn lessons?

"It’s only a few more days," replies Jon, not even looking up from his three screens. Getting out of this is so far off his radar he can't even be bothered to dismiss Lovett's suggestions properly.

"So you’re going?"

"Yeah." At his huff, Jon at last deigns to pay attention. "Are you not coming?" he asks, blinking innocently at Lovett.

"Do you want me to come?" Lovett rebuts, instinctively contrary. If his only role in this charade is to help Jon seem unsuitable, there's no need for him to be there if Jon's changed his mind about getting out of it. And Lovett's the one asking the questions here.

"We agreed we’d go," says Jon carefully, giving him nothing.

“Yeah, well, 'we' agreed a lot of things." Okay, Lovett is leaving casual behind.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" asks Jon, all affronted.

"It means that 'we'—for a very loose definition of 'we' where this is _your_ stupid plan—agreed to _pretend_ to be a couple and _pretend_ that you were seriously considering taking on the mantle of your glorious inheritance, but you seem to have forgotten about the crucial pretend part."

The hint of annoyance that Lovett has managed to provoke in Jon vanishes, and he looks stricken. "Sometimes playing a role can," he swallows, "can open your eyes to a future you hadn’t ever considered." His eyes are intent on Lovett's. "Haven’t you ever found out halfway through faking something that you wish it was real?"

It's easy, with Jon looking so seriously into his eyes, to imagine that he's talking about a different future than he is. But that's as crazy as it ever was, and besides, no. Lovett has always known what his stupid wish was. He looks away, annoyance rising, ever reliable, to cover his irrelevant vulnerabilities. "This isn’t like..." he gropes for a simile that won't be too revealing, "pretending to like wine until it actually becomes drinkable. It’s life changing." If Jon leaves, everything changes. "And it's not just about you." They have employees, for fuck's sake. Whose well-being is totally at the forefront of Lovett’s mind. Which is why he’s almost shouting. ”You can’t just change the terms of what we’re doing without telling me."

"Right," says Jon, and stops talking. His face has gone pale.

"Maybe I don’t want to be part of this, if that’s what it is," presses Lovett. If he actually says it out loud, that Jon might, impossibly, want to be a stupid king, then it's going to seem too real. It's Jon's responsibility to say it, if that's what he wants.

Jon doesn’t say anything, and Lovett is perhaps, just perhaps, being a selfish little shit. It's not like he doesn't want Jon to have a satisfying and fulfilling career, if that's the right word for whatever kings do. People leave their jobs and where they live and their friends all the time. It’s hard to do, but it’s not unreasonable. Lovett himself has done it. He's long accepted that the fact that Jon followed doesn't mean he followed him, so it's hardly fair to suddenly act like Jon owes him something.

Abruptly, Lovett doesn't want to know if Jon has already made up his mind to go. He just wants him to stop looking so goddamn wounded. "I think I need a day off, a bit of space, that’s all," Lovett says. "I'm not backing out on you. I'll see it through."

Jon nods, and they don't talk again until he leaves, alone.

 

Despite Lovett's plan to get back to ostentatiously playing footsie with Jon while old men drone on about pears and the dizzying complexity of the incestuous intermarriage between Jon's distant relatives, he does not end up going back. The next day, Jon drops a binder on his desk. "This is what we would have covered this week," he says, "you're off the hook till the ball." The binder is large, and has a lot of colorful tabs protruding from it. “Now I think about it,” says Jon, with an unconvincing smile, “you don't really even have to read it."

So that seems pretty definitive.

***

Having a sort of answer does not help. Neither does Jon pulling back from his fiancé method acting like it never happened. Everything is much, much worse. When they started this, Lovett honestly had thought that his heart was inured enough to tender feelings for Jon Favreau that he'd come out of a stint as his pretend partner pretty much as he went in: understandably wistful, but not _tormented_. His barriers have been tested and polished by years of Jon's optimism and goodness and face pounding against them. They should have been robust. Instead, they were brittle, nothing more than a shell shielding incubating feelings from view so that they could burst forth fully formed at the worst possible moment, which it seems fair to label this as. 

Lovett has had a taste of the Jon Favreau boyfriend experience, and if you'd asked him in the midst of it he would have said he wasn't even enjoying it because it was so fucking _much_ , but actually he was developing some kind of dependency. Now it's gone he aches for it. For Jon's leg pressed against his because he sat down too close. For Jon's eyes turning attentively to him when he talks, his smile beginning pre-emptively, like he has total faith that what Lovett has to say will be funny and interesting. Like Lovett is someone that Jon would choose to spend his life with. And even though it's over, it's not _over_. He has one more night of it to look forward to and endure, and Jon is going to be in _formalwear_.

The worst thing? Inevitable heartbreak isn't even his number one problem. Lovett would kill for a confirmed future of unrequited pining over his best friend slash business partner slash neighbor. That would mean Jon was _here_.

 

When Jon takes a morning off from their real jobs to go do prince stuff, Lovett doesn't comment. Why would he? Jon is his own person and Lovett has morose staring at his computer to do. He's been focusing on this important work for a good few hours, with only a slight break to lecture the interns on polling data before they have the temerity to tell him—their boss—that they had other things to do, when he becomes aware of a blonde, preppy presence intensifying at his side. Tommy is pushing his chair over to Lovett's desk, roller wheels rumbling ominously under his bulk.

"So," Tommy begins. "How is it going?"

"Fine," says Lovett. Be the change you want to see in the world, and all that.

Tommy barely turns the full power of his incredulous stare on Lovett, and he crumbles, both metaphorically and literally, folding in half to lay his head on his desk. None of his fucking walls work anymore.

"Terrible," Lovett admits, voice muffled by his keyboard.

Tommy makes a surprisingly sympathetic noise and pats Lovett on the back consolingly. Given that he normally conveys his regard through blush intensity and pigtail pulling, Lovett must look deeply pathetic. And Tommy doesn't even know the worst of it.

"If only we could have seen this coming," he says, with the innocent condescension of someone who thinks that Lovett's heart is the only thing at stake.

"What if he wants to be stupid king of stupid Genovia?" says Lovett. He can’t hold it in anymore.

"What?" Tommy, the naïve fool, looks genuinely surprised. "Don't be ridiculous."

He clearly doesn't get it. They are in real and present danger. Lovett sits up, so that the light of madness in his eyes can be seen, and the seriousness of this crisis appreciated.

"It's not ridiculous! He could have pulled out already, they're never actually going to go after him for treason, but he hasn't even tried. Why is that? He's doing this because he likes it. You should see him when he's prince-ing. He charms everyone. He fits in." Tommy is still frowning at him, like he's trying to figure out what Lovett's deal is, and not how he can _help_. "You know how it always seemed like he should run for office, but also it never felt quite right? It's because he's made for monarchy, of all the stupid things. Monarchy: it's like being elected, without the campaign and the chance for people to reject you." Why did he never realize that? God, they'd been doomed from the start. “He gave me a binder!” Lovett waves the binder in Tommy’s face. He cannot deny the existence of the binder.

“Hey.” Gently, Tommy takes the binder from Lovett’s hands. “If he does want to be King of Genovia, then we can't stop him. But I don't think he does." He does not understand the significance of the binder.

"You'll see," says Lovett, darkly. All too soon, they'd all see.

***

By the day of the stupid ball, Lovett has ascended up through the various stages of grief: the troposphere of denial, the stratosphere of anger, the mesosphere of bargaining, the thermosphere of depression, and the little known exosphere of hysteria, to float above all that nonsense in the cool vacuum of space, where nobody can hear him scream.

He dresses in his brand new bespoke tuxedo with an air of calm acceptance, like he's getting ready for the funeral of an elderly relative whose death did not come as a surprise. They'll all say things like, "we knew it was coming for a long time", and "honestly, I think it was a relief by the end", or "he was too good for this world". If the ball is a goodbye party, signifying the end of this phase of the unexpectedly satisfying and meaningful life they've managed to carve out of the disaster of Trump's presidency, then so be it. They had a good run. They might even make it work without Jon. Lovett and Tommy can do the Monday pod alone, and Alyssa will probably agree to take on Thursdays with Dan, or he and Tommy can take turns. Everything will be a slightly shittier version of what came before, but it will still be there.

Somehow, despite sharing an office, a street and, in normal times, a ride between said locations, Lovett has barely seen Jon all week. Their shared commitment to assiduously avoiding physical proximity, eye contact or being alone together is partially responsible, but it helps that Jon spent half the week out of the office, presumably at Prince University. Which makes sense. Committing your life to the crown is a big deal. All those rules about who's allowed to stand up in front of what rank and what order your parasitic relatives enter rooms in don't learn themselves. And when Jon does something, he likes to do it properly, whether it's being head of state, or breaking up with his fake fiancé and abandoning his sacred podcasting duty for fancier foreign climes and more jewelry.

Tonight, Jon will probably want to discuss their discrete break-up. He probably has a plan all worked out. Something sensible where any mild social opprobrium falls on Jon, because he's like that. It's kind of surprising he hasn't done it already. Maybe even innocent, oblivious Jon has caught on to how fucked up Lovett has got over all this. Maybe he can sense that Lovett's dignity has been devalued to the point where he has fantasized about not going quietly into the night, not playing along with whatever Jon's plan is. If he doesn't, Jon will probably be so unwilling to drag them both into scandal that Lovett might even be able to compel him into a sexless, loveless marriage. Then they'd really fit in with all his relatives. Okay, so that's more of a nightmare than a fantasy, but it's indicative of the straws Lovett has grasped at. Or maybe he can make such a scene at the ball that he does get Jon disowned, whatever the hell it is that Jon wants. He hasn't been officially told of any change of plan. He's still technically on a mission to allow Jon to stay here.

Right on time, a limo arrives, Jon, Tommy and Hanna already inside, to take them to the ball. For the entire journey, Lovett is anticipating the talk and the official end of their scheme, but Jon makes no attempt to loop Lovett in to any change of heart. He’s quiet most of the way—nervous maybe, it is a big night for him—and Lovett chatters to Tommy and Hanna to fill the silence, deflecting whatever feelings he has about the perfect tailoring of Jon's faux military garb into wondering if the outfit is doing anything for Tommy. 

All too soon, they pull up at the venue. Tommy and Hanna get out, and Jon puts a hand Lovett's arm to hold him back. Lovett braces himself, but "Can we talk later?" is all he asks. Lovett nods, still preternaturally calm about the end of life as he knows it. What will come will come, and he may as well enjoy this last night of the fantasy while he can. He takes Jon's arm, and they go in together.

This night, of all nights, has the surreal quality that an official last night should. The ball is, even to Lovett's critical eyes, breath-taking. Long tables are arrayed through the grounds of some wealthy Genovian's estate, piled high with food and drink and centerpieces that blur the line between edible and decorative. The focal point is a dancefloor, illuminated by fragile paper lanterns, seemingly floating mid-air, which cast a flattering golden light over all the expensive looking people in attendance. Ugh. It's all so tasteful.

Technically, this ball is unrelated to the succession of Genovia's throne, but it's clear as soon as they arrive that, despite the plan to keep this scheme discrete, everyone knows that Jon is the guest of honor. The buzz of conversation intensifies as soon as they enter, and everywhere Lovett looks someone is whispering to the person next to them and pretending not to stare.

They mingle a little with various politicians and dignitaries, business as usual in the made for tv movie that is their life now. Jon is very polite and Lovett is very subdued. Also the new business as usual. It's all starting to feel a bit anticlimactic, for such a seminal moment in their lives, but then the band starts a new song, and Jon turns to him.

"May I have this dance?" he asks.

"Are you sure?" Lovett needs confirmation on this. They'd had one perfunctory lesson on dancing, which had only proven that they were both terrible at it, and if they've moved past the part of this where they actively pretend to be in love, such a display is extremely unnecessary. Is them dancing terribly part of the breakup plan?

"I've been practicing." Jon's proud smile is infectious, and Lovett moving towards the dance floor even as he continues to probe.

"You have?"

"All week," confirms Jon, and they're off.

They dance and—and Lovett feels stupid even thinking this but—it’s magical. Whatever his dance teacher has been doing has been working, because Jon whirls them round like they're in a music box, and Lovett isn't tripping up. He feels steady and safe, enclosed by Jon's sure arms—the two of them still with each other while the world spins around them, an unimportant blur. Jon's face is so close, so dear and familiar, but still so beautiful it takes his breath away. Jon's face is coming closer, their feet are slowing, and without thinking it through, Lovett is going up on his toes, leaning in to meet Jon halfway.

For a moment, their lips touch, a delicate catch of skin on skin, and even though they're surrounded by people, it feels like it's just them, like their first real kiss. It's so perfect that the scattering of applause around them seems fitting, right up until it brings Lovett back to reality with a thump. They're not alone, and this isn't real. He's being swept off his feet by an actual almost Prince, but it's a joke, and he's the punchline. As if to underline the point, his feet finally fail him, and he stumbles on the next turn, bringing them to an abrupt halt.

"Are you okay?" asks Jon, untroubled by anything other than passing concern for Lovett's ankles and his looming royalty, because anything deeper than that is just in Lovett's head. Except... god, this is so fucking confusing. Why is Jon pretending so hard again, if he's going to accept and go to Genovia? Is he not even going to tell Lovett about his change of heart?

"Fine," he lies. He's not sure if Jon buys it, but he doesn't get to find out, because a statuesque blonde, who he recognises as the third or fourth daughter of the king of Aldovia, because that's the kind of useless information that European diplomats have been trying, and apparently succeeding, to force into his head, appears and asks Jon to dance.

Instead of taking this golden opportunity to offend someone, someone who in this case is already being pretty rude to what she thinks is his actual fiancé, Jon gives her a gallant smile, offers his hand, fucking bends down and kisses her hand when she places it in his like he's courting her a century in the past, and whips her away into the same dizzying spirals that Lovett had been in. Yeah, it's definitely Jon and not Lovett creating the magic.

The two of them are nearly the same height, two specimens of human perfection. They look like they belong together. Like the topper on a wedding cake. Like a Central Casting call for Prince and Princess Charming. Jon leans in to say something to her, and the tinkling peal of her laughter rings out across the dancefloor. She laughs so hard that a golden tendril of hair falls down from her updo, and this makes her look even better. Conniving little social climber. She probably loosened that on purpose. Jon isn't even that funny.

Lovett determinedly doesn't think about how Jon made him snort La Croix out his nose a couple of weeks ago, or about how a princess doesn't really have that far to go up the social ladder. Amongst his encyclopedic knowledge of obscure European monarchies is the fact that her two to three older sisters are in rude health, so Jon is probably her best shot at an actual throne. If that's ridiculous, it just makes her a worse person.

It's then, stew of jealousy and frustration at boiling point, that Lovett sees it. An actual tower of champagne glasses. It's easily taller than him, even if it wasn't on a table, and under the lanterns of this fancy party it glows and shimmers, angles of cut glass and golden, fizzing champagne catching the light. It looks expensive. When the Queen drifts into view, pausing with her conversational companion to admire the centerpiece, it seems like fate. Since Jon can’t even do him the courtesy of calling it off, his official mission tonight is still unchanged.

With laser focus, Lovett heads towards the tower, his stride determined, his mouth set with grim resolve. This is fucking it. He nearly falls over, _again_ , when an arm grabs his elbow and drags him behind a bush.

“Oh no you don’t,” Jon whispers, voice harsh.

“Oh no _I_ don’t? Are you kidding? You are this close to developing an affected European accent and marrying one of these socialites.”

“I don’t think that assassinating the Queen is ultimately going to be helpful.”

“That’s not-” Lovett peers back at the vertiginous tower of heavy, cut crystal. Okay, so maybe Jon has a small point in this particular instance. But the principle still stands. “She would have been fine,” he says dismissively, because now is not the time to acknowledge weakness. “I’m trying to do what you said you wanted me to do. If that’s changed, let me know, we can tell everyone that this fight is us breaking up and I’m sure Princess Whateverthefuck of the land of the Amazons will be glad to console you. If you don’t want to move in to the second best castle in Genovia next week, fuck some fucking shit up and stop kissing all these women’s hands.”

“I’m not-” Jon sputters uselessly. “They all think I’m gay.”

“Well, you’re not.” A fact which Lovett needs, yet again, to remind himself of. Abruptly, he can’t hold on to his not-so righteous anger. It drains away, and he feels sad and tired and foolish, a peasant stock idiot panting after perfection, too stupid to stop continually falling for the lies he helped create. Is he really having a jealous spat with his fake-bi, fake-fiancé over a bit of hand kissing? What is he _doing_?

“Lovett-” Jon begins. But Lovett has got to get this out.

"I know I'm eminently unsuitable to be Prince Consort of Genovia, whatever the fuck that entails, but even you can't think that I can be unsuitable enough to cancel out this-" Lovett waves his hand up and down, trying to encompass the heart-stopping reality of Jon, "-story-book handsome, Obama-eloquent bullshit. It doesn't even seem like you want me to anymore."

"I promise you, I don't want to be king," says Jon. "It's hard to be rude to people who are being so nice. And it turns out that I really want people to like me. I think I've got a problem." He says it lightly, a joke between friends. He doesn't get it.

"Then why are you still-" Because of fucking course, Lovett feels the burn of tears building behind his eyes. He soldiers on. "I want to help you, but I can't do this anymore. It’s too painful. I'm not a joke, and I'm not that good at acting, and I. I can't make myself realize that none of this is real.” The tears are out now and—as a reminder that there is always a way for something to get more humiliating—Lovett is pretty sure his nose is running. He's got to get out of here before he starts full on ugly crying.

Unfortunately, Jon grabs his shoulders in a death grip, and foils his escape. He looks like Lovett has finally managed to impress upon him the depth of how much he's let this scheme fuck him up, so, there's a pyrrhic victory there at least.

"Is that what you- No, Lo, you've got it all wrong," he says, shaking Lovett a little, as if that will knock all this nonsense out of Lovett. "I don't want to be king of stupid Genovia and go to parties for a living. I want to stay in LA with you and Tommy and three dogs and four hours a week of the same ten minutes of ad copy, and do something worthwhile with my life."

Lovett is so fucking confused. "Then what are you still doing here? Why didn’t you talk to me all week? Why are trying so hard to-"

"It's you, okay?" bursts out of Jon, "I love pretending to be your fiancé, and bitching about the stupid cutlery and fancy wine, and watching you take all these aristocrats down a peg or two over dinner," he loosens his grip on Lovett's arms, slides his hands down to hold Lovett's in his and looks down at them, clasped together. "I love getting to hold your hand whenever I want." Jon falls silent, and Lovett squeezes his hands encouragingly. He continues, looking back up into Lovett's eyes. "You said you needed space and… I thought you’d figured out that I'm not a fairy tale prince, I'm a creepy loser who's prolonging this because. Because I'm hoping maybe I'll get to kiss you again. And I really do want people to like me. That part was true." His eyes are suspiciously shiny, and if Jon cries, Lovett is really going to lose it. "I'm sorry."

Before Lovett can respond, Jon drops his hands, says, "I'll prove it to you," and steps out from behind the bush.

Alarmed, Lovett follows him back into the party, which is still glamorous and glowing and undisturbed. Jon, lightly tearstained, with an unhinged glint in his eye, doesn't fit in anymore. He makes a beeline for a woman walking towards the bar. Lovett doesn't know what he's going to do. Insult her admittedly over the top dress? Proposition her? But Jon skips all that to plant a foot on the long gauzy cape that trails from her shoulders—Lovett wasn't kidding when he said it was over the top—and it rips from the dress with a surprisingly loud noise. She turns around, rightly incensed, but clearly doesn't know what to do when she sees who it is who tore her dress.

"I'm so sorry," says Jon, who was right on the money about needing to be liked, "please send me the bill." He's blushing, obviously mortified, but doesn't hesitate, turning around to pluck a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and immediately flinging it at the Arch-Bishop of Genovia. He can't quite bring himself to throw it in the poor man's face, and hits him more in the chest. Which might be worse. The Arch-Bishop is wearing extremely opulent robes, heavy with what looks like real gold thread embroidery. He certainly shrieks like they're worth something.

For the few seconds this whole show has taken, Lovett has been frozen in a combination of horror and admiration, but when Jon turns towards a table piled high with patisserie, a teetering croquembouche at the center, and puts a hand on his ceremonial sword, Lovett scrambles into action.

"That's enough!"

"Oh thank God," says Jon, pushing the sword back into its scabbard. "I was going to do it," he adds, when Lovett raises an eyebrow, "But I was kind of hoping I wouldn't have to."

"Wow, our romance is already perfunctory," says Lovett. He can feel himself beaming up at Jon in a most outrageous fashion, really completely indiscreet, but he doesn't seem to be able to stop. Or he assumes he wouldn't be able to if he tried, which he isn't. He walks over and slips his hand back into Jon's, where it feels most comfortable. "You had me at you love holding my hand".

"You couldn't have mentioned that before I incurred several thousand dollars in dry cleaning bills?" asks Jon, but he's grinning down at Lovett, not at all annoyed, and tugging him closer, leaning down for what will finally, at last, be their first actual kiss, two free citizens of the USA who will make out wherever they damn well please, not for some obscure geopolitical machinations, but purely for their own enjoyment.

Which is of course when Joe, with his usual impeccable timing, interrupts them.

"The Queen would like a word," he says.

***

"You've been in the papers again." This time, she sounds exasperated, and it's a whole sheaf of newspapers and magazines that she drops, with none of her usual grace, on the table. The photos aren't quite as flattering as the last set. In some of them, Jon is mid rant, gesticulating wildly, and in one he's gaping gormlessly, one finger on his lower lip, like a particularly vapid sexy shepherdess. "Someone has been digging up some of the more impassioned"—she puts an emphasis on impassioned that makes it clear that that is the polite word for what she means—"rants, as I believe you refer to them, from your podcasts."

"That's in the public record," says Jon. "I've never tried to hide my work."

"We try and promote it whenever possible," adds Lovett. "I've been telling people to tune in to 'Lovett or Leave It' this whole time."

"And to read 'Common Sense' by Thomas Paine, yes, I know," says Clarisse, sharply. She takes a deep breath. "The eloquence and passion of your podcast work is very impressive, when taken as a whole. Some of these details, out of context, don't look quite as good."

"The media do love to cherry pick," agrees Jon easily.

“You had a previous life." Clarisse smiles at them, beneficent. "That's fine. The people will understand. They’ll probably even like it, once we put some context out there, and behind the scenes it will be useful to have an intelligent, engaged monarch who’s experienced in politics. But all that is _behind_ the scenes. The monarch of Genovia has to be apolitical to the rest of the world." She looks closely at Jon. "I need to know that you are committed to turning over a new leaf and stepping back from some of your more colorful opinions, in public at least."

“Oh." Jon blinks at her, masterfully imitating his most vacant front page appearance. "I wasn’t even going to give up the podcasts.”

Clarisse slumps back in her chair and pinches the bridge of her nose. For several moments, they stand in silence. Lovett can barely stop himself from wriggling in anticipation. Jon might actually be holding his breath.

“It pains me to say this," Clarisse says eventually, "but I’m afraid that you are not monarchy material. I hoped you’d be a breath of fresh air, but I think you might be more like the gale that sweeps us all off a cliff.”

“Yes!" Lovett can’t contain a shout of triumph. Jon's smile conveys much the same sentiment non-verbally.

Clarisse rolls her eyes, ever so slightly. Her time in America has changed her. “Yes, well, I'm glad you're happy. Genovia is not as horrible as all that."

"What will you do instead?" asks Jon, the sap. Lovett is already moving on from the fate of the Genovian people emotionally.

"The family historian has located Phillipe's first wife in San Francisco, and they have a daughter we didn't know about. She’s young, but maybe that's better."

"Who knew California was such a hotbed of wayward Genovian royalty?" says Lovett, through his giant grin. He's giddy with relief.

The Queen does not answer, which is fine, it was mostly rhetorical. "You should both come to visit sometime," she says, "even if you are not the heir to the throne, you are still family. We have a couple of palaces ideal for honeymoons."

"We'll put it on the list," says Jon, still beaming.

***

Outside Tommy, who Lovett had honestly forgotten was even in attendance at this shindig, is leaning on a wall.

"So?" he asks.

"I'm off the hook," says Jon. He's swinging Lovett's hand back and forth like a happy child. "Apparently I'm too foul-mouthed and opinionated."

"Excellent," says Tommy, "I'm glad I didn't waste all those intern hours."

Lovett's jaw might actually drop. Jon's definitely does. "You?"

"I've had them combing through the archive the past two weeks for all your most extreme opinions," says Tommy. "Lara even put together an excellent supercut of your mispronunciations. It's over ten minutes long Favs, you might have a problem."

"Once an inveterate manipulator of the press, always an inveterate manipulator of the press," says Lovett admiringly. "I forgot how good at that you are."

"Tommy," breathes Favs. He lets go of Lovett's hand to give Tommy a patented, back slapping bro-hug. "I can't thank you enough."

"I'm sure it was just a factor," says Tommy, with typical self-deprecation.

"I'll forgive you for this shocking betrayal if you send me the supercut," says Lovett.

"It's on the Genovian Mail's website, so you can find it yourself," says Tommy. Jon's gratitude dims slightly, and Tommy wisely quits while he's ahead. "I'm gonna get back to Hanna," he says, "and let you two sort the rest of this out." He gestures between them in the universal symbol for 'it's complicated'.

"Do we have a lot to sort out?" asks Lovett, when they're alone again.

"I'm pretty clear on what I want." Jon's eyes are intent.

"Please say it's not to go back to the fancy party."

Jon takes a step towards him, putting them so close together that Lovett swears he can feel the heat radiating from Jon's torso.

"I've had enough of fancy parties. There's a much exclusive party that I w-" is all he manages to get out before Lovett leans up to kiss him. His brain is definitely saving every detail of not only the feel of Jon's lips, but the sensation of the length of his body pressed against Lovett, one hand on the back of Lovett's head, holding him close like he can't bear to let him get any further away, and the other, promisingly, cupped around his ass. He's breathless when they pull apart.

"Don't think that such terrible lines are always going to work on me. I'm particularly weak for you in that uniform." For a few, reckless seconds, Lovett casts his eyes up and down the corridor, considering the potential privacy of the various doors leading off it, but they've probably caused enough scandal for one week. "If you were trying to say, 'let's get out of here'," he says instead, "I am very into that."

"Let's get out of here," says Jon, and they do.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/persuna), tagging at length.


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